


Heaven's a Mistake

by BoxOnTheNile



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Knitcobi, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Other, Skirts, Toxic Masculinity, Trans Daniel Jacobi, exmo Maxwell, i'd say men in skirts but the point is that kepler isn't a man, mentions of - Freeform, that's not important to the story but it's important to me, this is fabia's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29691954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: Daniel snorted, head still on the table. "We're the most fucked up people in history, but still we're somehow less dysfunctional than my family."Alana elbowed him. "I'm your family now."He lifted his head and smiled at her, then at Warren. "Yeah. You are."The intimate vulnerability of it rankled. Warren flagged down a waiter to order so he didn't have to respond.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler, Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	Heaven's a Mistake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fab_ia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/gifts).



> if I had a nickle for every time i'd written nonbinary antagonists in skirts learning to be vulnerable, i'd have two nickles. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
> 
> Title from Gates by Tyler Glenn.
> 
> keats i hope you're happy

_vulnerability will reward you  
with love or a lesson_

_both will be worth it_

_— soft human by Emery Allen_

* * *

Warren was eleven the first time he saw a man in a dress.

The streets of Chicago were busy and often odd, so he didn't notice until his mother muttered something nasty. He didn't understand why his mother was so angry; they looked comfortable in the bright yellow skirt and dark teal blouse, not so different from what Warren's mother was wearing.

"Men don't wear skirts, Warren," she told him sharply. "It's disgusting."

She told him things like that a lot, about what men were supposed to do, supposed to be. He grew into that mold, made it his own, used it to move higher, stronger, further. 

Men didn't lose, his mother told him. So when he was seventeen, and his father blackened his eye again, Warren took the man's firearm from his bedside table and made sure it was the last time.

Men pursued what they wanted, so he joined the Air Force and aimed for better until there wasn't a better to reach.

Everything laid out, in a neat black-and-white. Warren had a role to play, and he played it. 

And the little part of him that hated that role was a weakness he'd find a way to stomp out eventually.

* * *

Daniel Jacobi was the first recruit Warren did not choose himself. Cutter dropped the file on Warren's desk and said, "I want him. Make it happen."

Warren flipped through the file, pausing on the medical records for a mastectomy, the legal paperwork to change a name and gender marker. "Of course, sir," he said.

And if his research for the mission included more queer theory than Mister Jacobi's actual history, than that was no one's business but his.

Warren didn't work directly with Jacobi after his recruitment for months. 

"It's almost like you're intimidated by him," Rachel taunted, sitting on his desk like it belonged to her. "Why? It's not because he's gay, you've taken men to bed more often than you take me. Or maybe it is!" She slid off his desk with a disgusted scoff. "Hopefully you find his clit faster than you found mine."

"That's not what you said last week," Warren said dryly. She slammed the door.

After a moment, Warren added himself to Jacobi's next assignment.

Six weeks later, Warren pinned Daniel to the wall in a safehouse in the Netherlands, both of them dusted with ash and streaked with blood, and made Daniel scream his name. 

Because Rachel was right. Something about Daniel shattered Warren's black-and-white vision, the certainties he'd grown accustomed to, and he wanted with an intensity that made him wary.

But men pursue what they want.

So Warren took.

* * *

Warren didn't knock as he walked into Daniel's apartment. Why would he? Daniel was his… _his_. He was curious as to what Daniel did in his time off.

Sing, apparently. Something electronic and poppy played over the stereo system, Daniel's voice keeping perfect time with the artist. Warren followed the sound to the apartment's tiny kitchen and stopped, dumbstruck.

Daniel had a dark red skirt swishing around his calves as he scrubbed down his stove, hips swaying. The black undershirt had holes and bleach marks, and Warren could see where the seam on the skirt had split and been hand stitched, but the feeling that settled in Warren's chest was the same as those years ago in Chicago; envy and longing and anger and something deeper and visceral and _awful_.

" _...Is a response of the body it_ –Oh Jesus _Christ_!" Daniel jumped when he noticed Warren in the doorway, flinching back and slamming his hip into the counter. "Fuck! Would it kill you to _knock_?"

"It might kill you if you don't learn to be aware," Warren said.

"I'm in my fucking apartment, which I'm pretty sure is under surveillance _anyway_." He took a deep breath. "Did you need something, sir?"

Daniel wiped his hands on his shirt unselfconsciously, like Warren did this all the time. And he did, technically, dropping in unannounced just before or after work, or in the middle of the night to creep into Daniel's bed like a terror and make him scream.

Daniel had never been in a skirt for those.

"What is that?"

"What is what, the music?"

"What are you wearing?"

Daniel looked down, then back up. "Sir, if you're going to start on that _real men don't wear dresses_ bullshit, I've heard it, and you can leave."

Warren swallowed the bitter jealousy and rage. "I thought you'd want to leave that behind."

"Why, because I'm trans? The skirts weren't the problem. I still like how they feel."

_Still like how they feel_. 'Still,' because it wasn't disgusting or depraved or any of the words Warren's mother used to use for _Daniel_ to wear dresses, not when he was younger, not even _now_. Warren crossed the room slowly, barely aware, and reached to the skirt. His fingertips skimmed across the threadbare fabric, worn soft even under the little stains. The skirt tangled around his fingers, and under it, Daniel's legs spread a little wider.

"Sir," Daniel said, soft and breathless. "Can we do this _not_ here?" 

_Do what?_ Warren almost asked, before taking in the flush burning on Daniel's cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way Warren had him backed against the counter. "Afraid of a few chemical burns?" was what he actually said.

"Don't wanna kill the mood by calling poison control."

Warren chuckled and guided Daniel out by the hold on his skirt.

* * *

"I'm starting to think you have a kink," Daniel teased breathlessly. "Do you like people in pretty dresses, sir? Like to fuck with their skirts pushed up around their hips?"

Warren tangled his fingers in the fabric of Daniel's skirt and kissed him quiet, pushing him back onto the couch. "Handsome men in pretty dresses, perhaps." He wanted to be one of those men in pretty clothes, and with Daniel's skirt across both their hips he could pretend. His hands slid up Daniel's thighs and...

"Surprise," Daniel murmured against his lips as Warren's fingers felt lace. Warren dropped to his knees and pushed up the skirt, the same dark red skirt that started all of this, and traced the edge of Daniel's heather grey lace panties. "Like them?"

Warren was struck speechless by how much he wanted; not lust, but envy. He wanted sheer fabric and lace, wanted to feel soft and pretty the way he knew Daniel must be feeling, and he wanted to rip that longing out of him. 

Or, perhaps, to indulge it. To swap places with Daniel, let Daniel whisper about how he was lovely and delicate and–

"Major?"

"You're so good for me," Warren breathed, because he knew Daniel craved praise the way Warren craved any kind of kindness at all. Daniel beamed, overjoyed at Warren's approval.

He put Daniel on top, the delicate lace pulled aside, and let him chase his own pleasure while Warren tried to drown the awful feeling in his chest with the sight of Daniel as he came.

* * *

Daniel approached him hesitantly, an unassuming package in his hands. "If I'm overstepping, sir," he said carefully, as though the door to Warren's office wasn't closed and damn near soundproof, "just… chuck it in the trash and yell at me for lacking professionalism or something. But. I noticed… something." He held out the package. It was small, wrapped in the original shipping plastic with the postal label still on it. "Just. Please don't open it in the building."

Warren took it. The way it gave under his hand told him it was fabric, whatever it was. He'd almost think it was knit, but Daniel wouldn't order something knitted, he'd make it himself. "Why not?" 

He tore open the packaging, ignoring Daniel's dismayed groan, and froze at the dark blue and dull gold lace. 

Daniel had flushed bright red. "It's not a sex thing!" he said quickly. "I… I used to steal boxers from the department store near my neighborhood, growing up, because I could wear them under my clothes and they made me… hate myself a little less. And… I don't think your thing for skirts is really a sex thing, either." He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. "I have some plainer ones ordered, if that's too much to start with, but those got here first."

Warren's hands shook. "Get out."

"Sir?"

" _Out_."

Daniel fled. Warren held the plastic packaging so tightly it hurt and breathed, jaw clenched, trying to make sense of why he was suddenly so _furious_.

Another look at the delicate lace in the bag, and he was forced to admit it was _fear_.

* * *

Warren went to the only other person he knew how to trust. 

Maxwell, against all stereotypes, kept her workspace brightly lit, handwritten notes and candy wrappers scattered across the desk. She glanced up as he walked in, nodded, and continued working. "Major."

Warren closed the door. The… package was locked in a drawer of his desk. "How do you live with it." It's not really a question. He'd already rather commit a thousand different atrocities than be anything resembling _vulnerable_ , but… he doesn't want to live like this anymore.

"Sir?" 

"Your… resignation, a few years ago. How do you live with it."

Alana turned to face him. "You're asking how I deal with the guilt and anxiety that comes with leaving a cult." 

Warren nodded. There had been such a profound expression of relief on Alana's face two years ago, when Goddard's legal team handed her a packet of paper sent from Salt Lake City. Daniel had set it on fire. Warren was well aware of her religious history when he'd hired her, but hadn't realized how _deep_ that guilt had run until she burst into tears over the flames.

"I know it's conditioning," she answered after a moment. "I know that it's all _bullshit_ , and that I can be happy without their stupid, arbitrary rules." She grabbed her coffee cup and drank as though to prove her point. "And I have you and Daniel. You don't give a shit if I drink coffee or don't get married." She tapped her thumb against her mug. "I know better than to ask, Major, but… whatever you were taught that's keeping you from being happy? Isn't worth keeping."

"Thank you, Doctor," Warren said politely. "This conversation never happened."

"Of course not, sir," Alana answered. 

Warren returned to his desk. A quick glance at his computer showed Daniel hadn't returned to Weapons R&D. He must have taken Warren's order to get out to mean leaving the building entirely.

Warren pulled the package from the drawer and grabbed his keys.

* * *

Daniel was curled up on his couch with his knitting needles, television playing some mindless show with more drama than it was worth. Warren stood silently for several moments, watching, before he decided he hated it. "This is awful."

Daniel had the needles gripped in one hand, pointed ends swinging for Warren's throat, in less than a second. Warren caught his wrist as the aluminum touched skin.

"Jesus Christ, I almost killed you!" Daniel shouted. "How long have you been there?"

"Few minutes. You still need to be more aware."

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Daniel repeated. He pulled his hand away to carefully straighten his knitting. "Can I help you, sir?"

Warren set the package—the _lace_ on the back of the couch. "It's… I'm…" He can't bring himself to admit it.

"You're scared," Daniel said softly. "Because you can accept it with other people, but with you it's _wrong_ or _broken_."

Warren exhaled heavily through his nose.

"But it's deeper than that, huh?" Daniel said. "You're so goddamn inscrutable most of the time, but the last few times we've fucked you've been… You want something, but you won't ask. It's not just the lace or the skirts."

Warren felt longing and loathing tangle in his chest. Men don't want to feel soft and pretty, men don't want to submit, men don't—

So maybe he wasn't one.

Daniel reached out to cup his cheek, soft, and Warren's eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into it. "Oh," Daniel said, and swallowed audibly. "Come here." Daniel guided him with hands and words until Warren was laid down with his head in Daniel's lap. Soft. Easy. 

It should have been uncomfortable, _awkward_ , because Daniel was so much smaller than Warren, but Daniel just changed the show on the screen and started knitting again.

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he woke up to Daniel carding his fingers through his hair. "Hey, boss. My leg is asleep, so we gotta move, but you can spend the night."

Warren had faced down live explosives and armed soldiers with nothing but cold determination and anger. The idea of sharing a bed with his subordinate and maybe-lover was _terrifying_.

"Or not," Daniel said. "But it's pretty late, so if you wanted to take the bed while I crash out here—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jacobi," Warren said. "I'm perfectly capable of driving home in the dark."

"Yessir," Daniel said, and didn't offer again.

* * *

A few days after, Warren got a text from Daniel.

_they're here if you're ready_

Warren waited as long as his self control would allow before responding.

_I'll bring by dinner._

It was mostly an excuse, flimsy as it was, and for once he knocked before coming in. He set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter before following the sound of Daniel's phone playing music into the living room, where he was folding laundry on the floor.

On the arm of the couch sat three neatly folded… undergarments. Black, grey, and blue again. "Not white?" he asked, like that was the question that _mattered_.

"You look good in blue." Daniel didn't look up from folding. 

Warren hummed. He brushed the backs of his fingers against the grey and nearly shivered.

They were the softest things he'd ever owned. 

"There's something back on my bed for you, too." 

Warren grabbed the blue before he could overthink it and headed back towards Daniel's bedroom. A sky colored sweater, oversized even for him, lay spread out on the bed, tags still attached. He glanced idly at the tags, curious as to why Daniel _bought_ it, and frowned. _He_ wouldn't think twice about it, but he made _significantly_ more than Daniel. He picked it up, ready to demand an explanation, and this time, he did shiver.

A moment later, he buried his face in it.

_"You look good in blue_ ," Daniel had said. Warren stripped slowly, and, heart pounding, stepped into the panties. He couldn't look himself in the mirror, and he gave up on the sweater before he even tried.

Instead, he put his dress shirt back on, leaving the buttons undone, and walked with the same confidence he always did back out to the living room. 

Daniel glanced up and back down. "Not your style?"

"Not yet," Warren said, and Daniel smiled. He folded the last of his laundry and stacked it in the basket.

And he shifted to his knees at Warren's feet. "I was right. You look _stunning_ in blue."

"What is this?"

"What do you want it to be?"

It was a jarring reversal of their typical roles. Warren was normally the one in control, but now he just felt… vulnerable. _Delicate_.

He spread his legs, and Daniel leaned in, pressing his lips to the bulge in the blue cotton. "Wanna see something I learned in college? Because I can suck you off without taking these off."

Warren swallowed. "Well?"

Daniel nuzzled against his cock, hugged by cotton as it was, and sighed happily when it started to fill under his lips. "There we are. Fuck, Boss, you're so pretty." 

Warren's breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with how Daniel dragged his tongue along the length of his cock. 

* * *

It took three weeks to wear them under his clothing to work. It was surprisingly terrifying, and he kept expecting someone to comment, to _know_ , but Rachel just sniped at him with her usual digs that he countered as always. He attended a board meeting with Cutter, acting as a quietly threatening presence, then casually forwarded an assassination order on one of them to Daniel. 

The man's car exploded in the parking lot. Daniel sent a text complaining about how easy it was. 

But mostly, _nothing changed_. Nothing except the loosening of a knot of loathing and longing that Warren hasn't even realized was there.

He brought Alana a fresh mug of coffee, overly sweet and steaming, and silently swapped out the cold cup at her desk. "You eat too much sugar to be healthy."

"Mormon cocaine," she said without missing a beat, grabbing her mug. She looked at it, then at the old mug Warren was holding. "I wasn't done with that."

"You are now." He paused. "You were right."

"I'm always right." She took a drink. "What was I right about this time?"

"It wasn't worth keeping."

She took a deep breath. "I don't like wearing skirts anymore," she said, not looking at him, "but if you wanted an excuse to go out, I think my hips are about the same size as yours."

The familiar tangle of rage and fear welled. Warren forced it down. "Maybe. Not for a while."

"Of course, Major."

"Did Daniel tell you?"

"We share an Amazon account. I think he forgot."

Warren rolled his eyes. "I'll be sure to keep you out of missions where you'd need to wear a dress."

She beamed at him.

* * *

Daniel posed the question Warren had been refusing to ask. "Would you prefer I stop using _sir_?"

Warren narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"It's traditionally masculine," Daniel said, setting down his knitting. Warren hadn't figured out what it was, but it was big, with a thin yarn Daniel called _lace weight_. "I could just use Major, which is gender neutral."

Oh. " _Sir_ is fine," he said. "I… it's not…"

"It's not the words causing dysphoria?"

Oh, he hated this. "I… don't know what that means."

"Oh, shit, uh…" Daniel paused. "It's a… a wrongness. You hate yourself… no, you hate how you're perceived, more. Because it doesn't match how you want to be seen. But then, yeah, you hate yourself because you don't fit what you want to be."

"Being called _sir_ doesn't cause that," he said carefully, uncomfortably. "The… _expectations_ do. But even then, I… there's something more to it."

"Yeah," Daniel said. "I definitely know that one." He clicked his needles together quietly. "I refused to learn how to knit or sew until after my top surgery. Because they were _girl_ things. But it's all arbitrary bullshit. Knitting or skirts don't make me less of a man. I can look pretty as fuck and still be manly."

"Explosives are stereotypically masculine," Warren said. "No, _sir_ is fine, and I have no desire to change my name or even my _pronouns_."

"But you might be less male than you thought?"

"I'm starting to think so," Warren admitted, discomfort heavy in his belly at the vulnerability of it all. He needed to break it, this gentle intimacy, before it rended him open. 

But Daniel just hummed softly and picked up his needles again. "The sweater is hung up in my closet if you want. I've taken all the cameras out of my apartment."

He had. Warren had noticed. He'd been genuinely proud; it meant Daniel was paying attention. "Maybe."

He didn't find the sweater. Instead, he let Daniel fall asleep against his shoulder and carried him to bed.

After a moment, he climbed into the bed next to him. Warren's heart pounded with something like trepidation for hours, waiting for some secret consequence, but nothing happened except Daniel kicking him in the thigh in his sleep.

* * *

"That's too much fucking sugar, 'Lana," Daniel whined, watching Alana dump a seventh packet of sugar into her coffee cup.

"Mormon cocaine," Alana and Warren said together. Alana smiled at him. 

"That was fucking terrifying, and I'm shooting the next missionaries I see now."

"It's not their fault, they're brainwashed," Alana said. "All this religious trauma, and all I got was a sugar addiction."

"It's horrifying to watch," Daniel said. Alana poured another packet into her cup.

"Sir," she said, stirring, "why are we in a shitty tourist diner at eight a.m. on a Sunday?"

"There's a dress shop across the street," Daniel said, "where the goddamn skirts are more than a month of my rent, but they're what the Major thinks may be his _style_."

"Overpriced, overrated, and still somehow tacky?" Alana asked.

"I can and will poison your coffee," Warren told her. "You won't even taste it under all the sugar."

"I cannot be killed," she said, and drained the cup all at once. "So are we pretending this is a stakeout?"

"I was wondering if your earlier offer still stands," Warren asked, straightforward. "But watching the people going in and out…"

"Because high fashion is fucking weird," Daniel muttered. "Go to a fucking thrift store like the rest of us broke ass queers."

Warren looked into his own coffee cup. "Should I?"

"This is not a conversation to have in a diner at eight a.m." Daniel dropped his head to the table. "No, you're too classy for that. One of the hipster _upcycling_ places near the beach, though?"

"They're very cis-normative, though," Alana pointed out. "They'll cater to body types like yours, but not the Major's broader shoulders.

"Fuck, you've got a point. I'd suggest the drag queens downtown but that might be too much to start with."

"Wait, hold on." Alana whipped out her phone and typed for a moment. "There's a tailor four miles from here with a trans flag in the window. Queer-friendly, and the perfect level of high class bullshit for the Major."

"Alana," Warren snapped. 

"Too far?" she asked, genuinely concerned, and Warren still wasn't used to people _caring_. Jaw clenched, he nodded once. "I'm sorry, sir. What was too far, the offer or the insult?"

"The insult," he said. "Next time, I really _will_ poison your coffee."

"I'll watch my step," she said.

Daniel snorted, head still on the table. "We're the most fucked up people in history, but still we're somehow less dysfunctional than my family."

Alana elbowed him. "I'm your family now."

He lifted his head and smiled at her, then at Warren. "Yeah. You are."

The intimate vulnerability of it rankled. Warren flagged down a waiter to order so he didn't have to respond.

* * *

The tailor took measurements swiftly and professionally. Their braids were dyed purple with heavy beads, and they had a skirt of their own falling to their calves. "So I'm thinking," they said, in a soft baritone, "an Edwardian style walking skirt. The gores are set so it flares behind you as you walk. Modest, simple, little old-fashioned but very professional, and you seem like a professional kind of person, yeah?" They smiled. "They're also really easy to put pockets in. I've got three."

"I don't know what that is," Kepler admitted.

"Here, I've got one mostly done. It won't fit you right, but you can see how it will fall." 

The tailor helped him into an unhemmed skirt, pinning the waistband to stay put, and asked him to take a few steps. The skirts swayed, almost trailing behind without seeming gauzy, and Warren's breath caught as something warm bloomed in his chest and he stared in the mirror in awe.

"There's what I'm looking for," the tailor said. "Damn I'm good. Black or grey, I'm thinking, for you—"

"Blue," Warren interrupted. "Navy blue."

"Navy blue it is."

* * *

Warren still couldn't figure out what Daniel was knitting. It looked like a large piece of lace, honestly, the stitches too wide and the yarn too delicate to be anything practical. It was a blue so pale and unsaturated as to be almost grey, hanging loosely off the needles.

Daniel's tug on his hair reminded him there was something he should be focusing on that wasn't the discarded project. He pulled Daniel's hips closer to his face. "What are you making?"

"Are you really asking about my knitting projects while sucking my cock?"

"Answer the question."

"It's—oh _fuck_ —a shawl. It's useless and pretty and— _right there don't stop don't—_ " Daniel curved around Warren's head, hips bucking. "I hate you," he panted, dropping back to the couch. "Fuck."

"The shawl?" Warren prompted, still between Daniel's thighs.

"It's dumb. I should've frogged it by now, but I'm close enough to finishing it'd feel like a waste." He ran his fingers through Warren's hair. "It was for you, but you seem to be leaning more vintage. Vintage? Is Victorian vintage?"

"Finish it," Warren said. "It'll upset Rachel."

"Please don't talk about your enemy with benefits while fucking me, I might get jealous."

"I've never had sex with Rachel."

"You want to. Angry hate sex in your office. I wouldn't even be mad, I just don't want to hear about it."

"Daniel?"

"Yeah? _Oh god_ —"

* * *

There was folded fabric on Kepler's desk. The note on top had his name in Cutter's handwriting, so it was either a gift or a threat. Probably both. He backed out of his office slowly and got Jacobi.

"Well, it's not a bomb, sir," Daniel said. "I think it's dress blues."

"I can see that. Is there a trap?"

"Nope, just the uniform. Would Mister Cutter send you a bomb?"

"Yes."

Daniel shrugged. "Well, he's not trying to kill you yet. Probably." 

"Probably," Warren echoed. He lifted the jacket, allowing it to unfold, and froze. It drew in at the waist where his own uniform wouldn't, and he swallowed heavily. "It's the women's dress uniform."

"Shit," Daniel breathed. "Are you in trouble?"

Warren flipped the note over. It was blank. "No," he said slowly. "I think this is his support."

Daniel shook out the skirt and grimaced, then held it up as though trying to picture Warren in it. "Yeah, no, I don't think this suits you."

"The blazer might," Warren said and frowned. "It's not broad enough for my shoulders." He glanced at Daniel.

"Oh, no. I knit, I don't sew. See if your new tailor can do it."

"Go back to work, Jacobi."

"Yes, sir," Daniel said with a smile, setting the skirt back on the desk.

* * *

Daniel had new yarn and different needles. "So there's this thing in knitting," he said, without turning around, and Warren smiled as he closed the door behind him. "It's called the sweater curse. You aren't supposed to make sweaters for your boyfriend because you'll break up before you finish it."

"You made a sweater for Alana."

"Hate to break it to you, boss, but Alana isn't my boyfriend. _Anyway_." He waved a hand at the back of the couch, where pale blue lace sat neatly folded. "Looks like it doesn't apply to shawls."

Warren picked up the shawl, just as delicate and impractical now as it was before, and draped it across his shoulders. "I feel ridiculous," he said softly. "Where would I ever wear this?"

"Dinner date. Grocery shopping. The laundromat. Socal constraints are a fucking scam."

Warren rounded the couch to sit next to him, the thin yarn catching against the hair of his arm and sending shivers through him. "What are you making now?"

"I think a blanket?"

"You think?"

"In theory it's a blanket, but this pattern's instructions make no goddamn sense." 

"I picked up the skirt today."

Daniel's needles stilled. "Yeah? How'd it go?"

His breath caught, and expelled in a rush. Daniel hummed in understanding, picked up his knitting. The fragile vulnerability of it spun between them like spider silk, like the lace across his shoulders. 

Warren swallowed. "I think it might go well with that sweater."

**Author's Note:**

> the last time i wrote a fic like this, i came out the other side and asked everyone around me to use they/them pronouns. somehow i used this one to work through religious trauma? fuck it, i don't know anymore.
> 
> hi keats, sorry this took so long, i love you


End file.
